


Blueberry Pancakes

by thelilnan



Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: (but I hope not), Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Gen, Implied Torture, Implied or Off-stage Rape/Non-con, Modern Era, Non-Graphic Violence, Out of Character, Parody, Pulp Fiction - Freeform, Rape/Non-con References
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-28
Updated: 2013-03-28
Packaged: 2017-12-06 17:45:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,206
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/738379
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thelilnan/pseuds/thelilnan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jean Valjean once again has to make a run from Javert's watchful eye in Paris. However, as he and Cosette are about to leave for their train to London, he notices something missing from his belongings. The silver candlesticks. Though Cosette worries for his safety, he promises a prompt return after retrieving them from their abandoned apartment. Once he has them, however, he has one of the weirdest fucking days of his life.</p>
<p>-<br/>Based 100% on one of the story-lines from Pulp Fiction. Modern AU. Car crashes, gunshots, a gimp, implied rape, etc. If you've seen Pulp Fiction, you know the drill. Just be warned.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Blueberry Pancakes

The fight had been a blur. All Valjean could remember was the rage inside him and getting lost in the mind of the man he’d been back in Toulon. He let it fuel him, punching and biting and kicking until his opponent fell, then quickly ran from the ring. Collected his money. It would be enough to get to England and start life again. He thanks God for the little blessings as he tore the tape off his hands.

How had he fallen this far? He thought he was above this; back-alley fighting for money when he’d resolved to use his strength and power for good and to God’s purpose.

God was not on his mind in the taxi. 

All he could think of now was escaping from Javert once more. The money in his pocket. The shame of having to perform and fight for that money. He scrubbed the sweat from his face, sighing.

But what else could he do? The money was quick and the sport was easy enough. But this was the last time, he promised himself. He had the money to pay for their tickets and set up a life in London where they could finally disappear. Still, he cursed his terrible luck that had brought him to the musty alley to fight.

They had been in the town square. Really, you would think a man of his age would know better than to give charity in the tourist crowds. You’d think he would have enough sense not to show his wallet to the impoverished in the mass of people, you’d think he’d know the smell of Thénardiers on instinct. But he hadn’t. And they’d known _him_. God, the riot they stirred, the attention they drew, the police swarming them–

Javert.

Of course he would recognize Valjean in a crowd of hundreds. He must have put a warrant for his arrest out by now.

Valjean tipped his head back and swore. At that point, it occurred to him that the woman driving the cab was talking. Her accent was thick and her voice sweet, but the words she said betrayed the inherit trust Valjean placed in such an innocent sound. She was asking these _questions–_

“What was it like to kill a man?”

Valjean’s head snapped up.

“What?”

“What was it like?” she prompted again, “I want to know.”

“He’s dead?”

“That is what the man on the radio said,” the driver responded innocently, wide eyes in the mirror. But Valjean knew her look. He’d seen it on the faces of Toulon’s truly lost criminals. He looked out the window, away from her prying gaze.

“I’m sorry about that, Mercier,” he muttered quietly. God help him now.

“What was it like?”

She was relentless.

“I didn’t know he was dead until you told me,” he avoided the question deftly. But he knew what it was like. Too many prison brawls had stolen that innocence from him. She persisted.

“What did you feel that made you–”

“Look,” he glanced to her name tag, “Esmeralda... Villalobos. Is that Spanish?”

“Yes, but I am Colombian.”

“Oh. Well, I’m sorry to be rude but I don’t want to talk about this anymore. I have a lot on my mind.”

“What is your name?” God, how could anyone have a voice this beautiful and ask such questions? Valjean cleared his throat.

“Jean.”

“Jean,” she practiced the name, rolling it on her tongue, “What a wonderful name.”

He sat back and chuckled shortly. In the mirror, Esmeralda smiled back at him. He rubbed his cheek as she drove on down the night road, rain lazily spraying up around them.

It would be a long ride back to the motel.

-

“Cosette,” Valjean whispered cautiously as he entered the motel, gently flicking the light on. She was asleep on her bed near the opposite wall. He could tell by the pile of covers rolling away and the spill of blonde hair over the pillow.

“Keep the light off.”

“Of course,” he turned it off again, plunging the room into sleepy darkness. His daughter sighed happily.

“How was the fight?”

Valjean sat on his bed, rubbing his neck. He ached entirely.

“I won.”

“Yay...” she muttered, mustering as much enthusiasm as she could when the hour was so late. Valjean reached over to rub her shoulder, “We’ll talk more in the morning.”

“When will we be leaving...?” she yawned, snuggling further into her covers.

“Around 10. Get some sleep.”

“Mmkay...”

As she slept, Valjean took a shower and contemplated. How would he resolve Mercier’s death? 

He scrubbed his hair. 

How could God forgive such a hateful thing? 

He washed away the sweat and blood. 

Would their passage to England really be the last leg of their trip to calvary? 

He dried himself and changed into a white t-shirt and clean boxers. 

And of course, Cosette could never know. Just another in a long line of hidden truths. Valjean rubbed his face and begged for forgiveness. The motel was quiet about him.

He drifted off into troubled sleep.

-

Gunshots. Revving engines. Valjean awoke with a start, sitting up in his bed. Cosette was standing in front of the television, brushing her teeth, still dressed in her sleep pants and shirt. Panic quelled slightly, he flopped back to the mattress and groaned.

“Morning, papa.”

“What’re you watching...?” he checked the time. 9:30. _Damn_.

“A racing movie,” she returned to the bathroom to rinse her mouth, “I don’t know what it’s called.”

The older man grumbled and rolled out of bed, fishing about for his suitcase to get dressed. Another day, another destiny. He dressed and sat back on the bed.

He had the money. He had Cosette. He had everything he needed to get away.

Blessed be.

“What do you want for breakfast?” he called to his daughter in the bathroom. She emerged, brushing her hair and fully dressed.

“Blueberry pancakes,” she smiled, combing her fingers through her hair, “With maple syrup. And... eggs-over-easy.”

“Oh is that all?” Valjean laughed at his daughter’s heroic appetite. As much as she’d grown in the years under his watch, that appetite remained twice what she looked like she could manage. She sat on the bed, tying her hair into a braid.

“And five sausages. With a big glass of orange juice and a black coffee.”

Again, he laughed and shook his head, sorting through his luggage.

He paused.

Something was missing.

“And for dessert,” his daughter continued, “Blueberry pie, to go with the pancakes. With a thin slice of cheese melted on top–”

“Cosette,” Valjean straightened, looking to her seriously, “Did you pack my candlesticks.”

The young girl stopped, staring.

She...

Valjean clenched his jaw, swallowing.

“Yes,” she nodded slowly, “I packed them.”

“They’re not here.”

“What?”

“They’re not _here_ , sweetie,” he tried to be patient; tried to calm the rage flooding him. The panic, “They were on the mantle by the kangaroo, do you remember?”

“Yes, papa–”

“Did you pack them.”

“I did!”

“Then where are they?!” he snapped, pulling clothes out of his suitcase in fury, “Do you have any idea what I had to go through to get those candlesticks?? I don’t have time to get into it but it was a lot; now did you pack them?!”

Cosette stared at him with wide eyes, trying hard not to cry or flinch away. She knew her father would never lay a hand on her but she had seen this rage a scant few times before, when things were especially hard. But it was never turned on her. Usually relentless con-artists or lecherous boys in alleys at night.

With barely a sound, she shakily answered, “... No.”

Valjean shouted then, slamming his hand to the wall and denting the cheap plaster. The shelf nearby shook, some motel accessories tipping over quietly. Cosette gasped shortly, hands anxiously clasped over her mouth, waiting for the worst. But the tantrum, however intense, did not last long. Valjean took a breath to calm down and shook his head. 

It was not her fault.

“It’s okay,” he said lowly, “It’s okay.”

“Papa...”

Valjean shook his head, running a hand through the curls, “No, no it’s okay. You didn’t know. It was an honest mistake...”

“I-I’m so sorry, papa...”

“Cosette,” his voice was returning; his real voice. The one that had coaxed an abused girl out of the snow and into his heart. Cosette relaxed slightly, hands lowered, “Don’t worry. I’ll just go back to the apartment and get them.”

A dangerous idea. Cosette tensed again, hands clenching in her lap.

“Won’t they be looking for you there?” She didn’t even know who ‘they’ were, poor thing. Valjean nodded.

“Yes. But I’ll be quick,” he grabbed his car keys from the table. He’d have to be. Javert would already know where he was living by now, “Go have breakfast. I’ll be back before you can say ‘blueberry pancakes.’”

As he reached the door, she sputtered, “Blueberry pancakes!”

Valjean turned with an amused smile, “Maybe not that fast. But I’ll be back.”

As a final thought, he went over and kissed her forehead, “I love you.”

“I love you too, papa.”

-

“Stupid, stupid!” Valjean smacked the steering wheel as he sped down the road to his old apartment. Thank God he knew the side-streets well enough to avoid any unwanted attention, “I reminded her; I specifically told her to grab the candlesticks! On the mantle, next to the kangaroo!”

Well, what good would it do to yell about the past now? He vented a bit more in the privacy of his car before parking by the sidewalk in an overgrown part of town. He was still a good two blocks away from his apartment. It was a bit of a walk, but he knew this was much safer than to park close and risk the attention, even if it would be a more convenient escape. Quickly and quietly, Valjean cut through backyards and sidewalks, approaching the apartment complex through an underused side entrance. The courtyard was open, thankfully, allowing him to creep inside.

Down the hall.

Up the stairs.

He felt his heart begin to pound. But there was no sign of any unusual movement in the hall as he neared his door.

Number 5.

He took a long breath and slowly unlocked the door.

Nothing.

He crept inside.

-

Even after a rocky start, the day was turning out pretty well for Jean Valjean. He’d snagged his candlesticks without incident, took care to turn off electricity in the soon-to-be-abandoned apartment, and even got a breakfast snack of Poptarts while rummaging around. Still, not one to tempt fate in even the best of moods, he took side-streets back to the motel. Cosette would just be digging into the eggs-over-easy at this point...

He sang along to the classic rock playing from the radio as he rolled to a stop at an intersection. Praise God, nearly done running. England would be good for them. A life free of stress or worry about facing a ghost of his past.

Valjean looked to the crosswalk again, checking if the light had changed, and it hadn’t. However, someone was crossing in front of him. A man, likely around his own age, carrying a pink box of donuts and what looked like a large coffee. For a brief second, Valjean thought he recognized the fellow. It seemed the gentleman had the same thought from a brief glance he’d spared him half a second before because he took another step backwards and looked directly into the car.

It was Javert.

The officer’s eyes widened, “Valjean–!”

He didn’t have time to finish his cry as Valjean, in a rush of adrenaline and the instinct to escape, slammed on the gas pedal and mowed him down. Javert hit his windshield with enough force to shatter it, actually bouncing off the car and into the street, while Valjean careened into the intersection. He was t-boned by another car, sent flying off into a wall, shouting and holding onto the wheel for dear life.

His car slammed into the wall. Valjean slammed his head onto the steering wheel. Valjean lost consciousness.

-

Mumbling.

No. Voices. Clear and distinct.

Women’s voices.

“He’s dead, he’s definitely dead.”

Javert’s eyes fluttered open with difficulty, squinting into the morning light. There were five women standing over him, staring down at him with worry and what looked like mourning looks. He blinked, eyes flicking between them with confusion. Immediately upon seeing he had survived, they hauled him to his feet, which he found he had little control over at present. It might have something to do with his head pounding or his forehead bleeding. Ah, yes, it seemed to be related. Javert looked blearily between the nattering women, trying to make sense of what was happening.

“I saw the whole thing, that man was driving like a maniac!” a short, ginger haired woman enthusiastically informed him, “If you want to sue him, I’ll be happy to testify.”

“Who...?” Javert managed to say, looking for said ‘him.’ None of the women appeared to be ‘him.’

“Him!” the ginger woman informed him, pointed to the far side of the intersection where a Honda was smashed into a building. The driver–‘him’–was sat in his seat, nursing a broken and bleeding nose with another woman crouched in front of him.

They met eyes.

“Valjean...!” Javert slurred, drawing his pistol on instinct alone. The women around him fled in fear, not realizing he was actually an enforcer of the law, not a mere thug. Javert didn’t care to comfort them at present. Valjean was close, close enough to be subdued; and though Javert rarely liked to use his firearms, Valjean deserved it, _deserved_ a shot in the leg or the shoulder, deserved to be carted off in pain–

He shot the woman tending to Valjean’s broken nose.

Shit.

-

_Shit, shit, shit_ –!

Valjean was running. He was dizzy, confused, and had coordination of only half his body at any given time. He was running at a horrible pace and limping like a fool but it seemed Javert was in a fairly similar condition. The two of them, he thought wildly, must look ludicrous. But there was no time for much more thought than that. He staggered down the street, grasping at walls and fences, trying to get away.

He rounded the corner, catching his breath through a broken nose, before another misaimed shot from Javert’s gun whizzed by. Valjean took to running again. Javert shouted unintelligibly some yards behind him.

It was a very bizarre chase.

He found a pawn shop to take cover in, slipping in and rounding the door to hide for a sneak-attack, should it come to that. The owner, a short, haggard woman, was shouting.

“Hey, what’s the idea–”

“Shut up!” Valjean snapped. Javert stumbled in, as predicted, and Valjean was upon him. They tumbled to the ground, screaming like madmen, until Valjean punched him square in the face. Then he was shouting–what, he didn’t know–but he was shouting and punching and Javert was yielding–

A shotgun cocked behind his head.

“Now wait just a god damned minute,” the woman snapped.

“You don’t understand,” Valjean nearly whined, body shaking with shock and adrenaline. Beneath him, Javert hiccuped blood.

“I don’t want to understand,” the owner said steadily, but fiercely. It was not a threat she made lightly, “Hands off the gypsy.”

Javert sputtered quietly. Valjean obeyed, standing slowly, hands raised in submission. He turned to face the woman.

“Approach the counter,” she said slowly. There was something in her eyes, something calculating and wild, that reminded Valjean of a long-forgotten memory. He stepped to the counter shakily, intent on asking her exactly who she reminded him of, when she cracked the butt of her shotgun across his skull.

For the second time, Valjean fell unconscious.

-

When both he and the officer came back to life, they were being sprayed with a hose. Valjean sputtered, trying to get away from the spray and to get a clear breath but both attempts were hindered. He was bound to a metal chair by thick cords of rope. Tightly fitted into his mouth was a red rubber ball. He snuffled for breath, shaking the water from his face. Drool leaked from the corner of his lips.

Javert was much the same.

The woman from the pawn shop was standing before them, having hosed them down, and was regarding them with an unimpressed gaze. She was a ratty little thing with more age on her face than she deserved, hair a knotted mess and make-up too vibrant to be flattering. She had been beautiful once, Valjean could tell, but age and life had taken that from her, leaving her disappointed and scowling.

He recognized her.

Valjean sputtered a name but it was lost behind the gag. Still, he seemed to convey something because the woman cracked an unfriendly smile.

“You’re the bastard who took Cosette.”

Beside him, Javert sat up straighter. Ah, good, they all knew each other.

Now what the hell was going on.

“Sorry about the wait, luv,” a lanky man called out as he descended the stairwell behind Mme. Thénardier. It was her husband, a sleaze disguised in a well-cut suit (upon closer inspection, it was found that there were many holes and patches and the suit was about a size too small.) He recognized the captives as his wife had done up in the main room of the shop and flashed the same ugly grin. All of his teeth were either chipped or missing. Valjean swallowed behind the rubber.

“So we’ve got them, eh,” he kissed his wife on her painted cheek, “Can’t wait. Why don’t you go wake the gimp?”

Valjean’s mind balked at the word. He knew that word. Somehow, he recognized it. But he couldn’t place the meaning. Beside him, Javert remained rigid, unwilling to show even the slightest hint of fear. He hoped his own posture conveyed the same bravery.

Before he realized she had gone, Mme. Thénardier returned with a man clad entirely in leather, head-to-toe. He moved awkwardly, as if walking was strange to him, which sent a sickened chill up Valjean’s spine. He refused to conjure up scenarios to explain such things. But, oddly, he wasn’t surprised by the image of the leather-clad man kneeling beside Thénardier, who was sat in a chair opposite them. The con-man surveyed them with interest.

“You two,” he drawled with a sneer, “‘Ave been at our heels for quite some time. Can’t say it’s not a joy to ‘ave you here.”

“What a joy,” Mme. parroted behind him. Thénardier grinned that mangled grin once again.

“Least it will be. We’re gonna ‘ave fun today, ooh yes. Now. ‘Oo to begin with?” His fingers fell in rhythm upon the gimp’s head. Valjean could feel his heart in his throat.

_Begin what?_

“Eenie, meenie, miney, moe,” Thénardier chanted, finger jumping between Valjean and Javert, “Catch-a, gypsy, by-the, toe.”

The parodied children’s rhyme continued, each beat and pause riling the anxiety and adrenaline inside Valjean further. The anticipation for his own or Javert’s choosing was maddening, whatever it meant. He just wanted the torture of not knowing to end.

“You. Are. It.”

Javert was It.

Valjean looked to him sharply and saw wide, brown eyes; heard muffled shouts and saw his shaking head. Thénardier stood, handed the gimp’s leash to his wife, and took Javert by the back of the chair to which he was bound to a room behind them. The legs of the chair scraped loudly against the concrete floor, drowning out most of Javert’s protests as he disappeared behind the door.

“You be good, luv,” Mme. Thénardier instructed her... pet? “Don’t let him do anything funny.”

The man nodded, swaying on buckling legs and secured to a hook high above his head, as she too disappeared behind that door. Valjean sat there, wild eyed and listening to muffled grunts. They sounded like Javert.

They got louder.

Valjean eyed the gimp some 10 feet in front of him, sizing him up, preparing for escape. The ropes had to go. Behind his back, his fingers twisted in the bond, picking at the fibers until the became loose. All the while, he held a firm gaze with his appointed guard and he saw, with elation, the wild-eyed gaze of Toulon had not disappeared from him completely. The man fidgeted, intimidated.

This would be easy.

The rope behind him was coming loose. He struggled harder, more of the rope slipping away, until his arms came free and he stood from the fold-up metal chair. He ripped the gag from his mouth, spit trailing, and took a sharp breath of air to clear the anxiety that had swamped his lungs. The gimp shouted, muffled, behind his zippered gag but his cry was unheard. Valjean knocked the man out with a single blow, watching him sway from his hooked-up collar.

Valjean ran to the stairs.

In the main showroom of the pawn shop, Valjean found his candlesticks sitting innocently by the counter. He hadn’t remembered grabbing them from the car, as fuzzy as he had been, but thanked God he had the clarity at that time to retrieve them. The precious silver would have surely been lost if he had abandoned it in the totaled Honda. He thought about that Honda with a grimace, but had no time to mourn the loss of his vehicle. Maybe he could hitchhike back to the motel, call a taxi from there...

Valjean nearly grabbed the candlesticks, ready to make his escape, before again taking pause and looking about the shop. The door was shuttered and the sign read ‘closed.’ No one would disturb the hole-in-the-wall pawn shop for quite some time. Valjean looked then about the shelves, cluttered with various oddities, listening to the loud, pained grunts from the basement. Along with those grunts came short whoops and hollers, sounding like either Thénardier.

An idea began to form.

Carefully, Valjean surveyed the items in the shop, one by one, considering his form of attack. Of course, he would save Javert. The man pursued him through decades but what use would it be to have him blame him for abandoning him in the lion’s den? Even if he did not reward Valjean for the rescue, his conscience would be clear with God, and that spurred Valjean on to pick his weapon. A gun? An axe? A chain-saw? He dreaded the thought of perhaps killing the Thénardiers, scum as they were, but the more he heard Javert’s gargled cried of pain, the more rage flooded his chest. He threw down the chain-saw and fumed. Nothing suited him–

High and away on the top shelf sat a long, delicately forged casing.

A sword.

Valjean snatched it quickly and descended the stairs.

-

He’d have to be quiet. Everything was counting on his stealth now, even as he approached the door to open it. His breath sounded deafening to his own ears, even as it was drowned out by Thénardiers shouting. Valjean’s fingers closed around the tarnished brass knob and twisted, slow and deliberate, easing the door open. The door pulled away and he was able to take in the scene: Javert strapped down over what looked like a pommel horse with Thénardier–

Valjean froze, for a second, horrified that his suspicions had been confirmed and bile roiling in his gut. Beneath the con-man, Javert was grunting in painful rhythm, cheeks ruddy and wet with what Valjean refused to believe were tears. He would not insult the man, even in observation. Valjean renewed his grip on the sword, quietly advancing on Mme. Thénardier, who was stood several feet back, watching.

He crept.

She turned.

With a single slash, he cut the woman down, sending her sprawling out against the wall; not dead, not dying, but wounded enough to where she wouldn’t interfere. She screamed for her husband, clutching to her mangled chest as blood poured out.

Thénardier turned sharply to see what caused the shriek and was met by the business end of Valjean’s blade. The con-man stumbled back to the far wall, wide-eyed and cock hanging from his trousers like some kind of depraved thing. He was, Valjean snarled, and forced himself not to look to Javert and shame the man further. He would deal with Thénardier and leave Javert to collect himself. He would prefer that.

Thénardier was cowering before him, palms flat to the wall, and glancing feverishly to the gun not a few feet from him. Valjean licked his lips, drawing in careful and dangerous breath.

“You want that gun, Thénardier?” his voice was unbelievably rough. He chalked it to the adrenaline and lack of water, “Go on. Take it.”

What was he doing?

Thénardier only stared at the blade nearly at his nose with terrified confusion.

Valjean prompted again, “Take the gun.”

Even as the man contemplated it, the idea was quickly and effectively aborted. It took Valjean a moment to realize it’d been a gunshot, not an explosion, he’d heard, even as Thénardier fell to the floor screaming. Valjean lowered the sword and looked to his left, where Javert stood, both hands clenched tightly around his pistol. On the floor, Thénardier curled upon himself and writhed with his curt shrieks of pain. Blood pooled at his groin and between his thighs.

What in God’s name was happening.

“Are you okay?” Valjean tried lamely as Javert limped forward a step, hands shaking now. The gun was still aimed at Thénardier.

“No,” Javert replied curtly. There may have been tears in his eyes; Valjean couldn’t tell for sure, “I’m pretty far from okay.”

A moment of silence, punctuated by short yelps from both Thénardiers. Valjean straightened his back, looking between Javert, Thénardier on the floor, and the door behind him.

“What now?” he ventured. Javert refused to look at him.

“What now,” the man parroted, “I’ll tell you what now. I’m going to call the rest of my unit down here. Arrest the two. Condemn the building. Make sure these two end up in the tightest lock-down Paris has.”

He was quiet for a long moment. The gun shook in his hands.

“Do you hear me, Thénardier??” he demanded, voice shaking at the edges. Valjean clenched his jaw, watching Javert hold it together, “You aren’t leaving my sight, by damned!”

Another long moment of heavy silence. Valjean tried again, voice nearly gone, “I mean ‘what now’ between you and me?”

Javert straightened slightly, gun lowered.

“Oh. That ‘what now.’”

The officer took a breath, eyes fixed on a wall ahead.

“There is no ‘me and you’ anymore,” Javert closed his eyes for a brief second, gathering strength, “You take your daughter and you get out of Paris. Tonight. And you do not come back.”

Valjean nodded, though it went unseen by the man. The man who had been hunting him for so many years. The man who permitted him to flee.

“But Valjean,” he added, chancing a look back at him, just as Valjean was ready to run, “Don’t... tell anyone about this. It stays between you and me.”

He nodded slowly, watching Javert’s gaze drop to the sword still clutched in his hands.

“Leave that. I’ll take care of it.”

Without another word more, Valjean took to the stairs with speed that surprised him.

-

What a day. What a nightmare. He was covered in blood–not just his own–and shaking like a leaf. He’d cut down a woman. Crashed his car. All for those candlesticks. He stopped by the counter on his way out, staring down at the precious, pure silver with exhausted eyes. He closed his bloodied hands around them and took to the door, though not before spying a handsome motorbike outside. It must belong to Thénardier.

Checking behind him quickly, Valjean pilfered the man’s keys. He wouldn’t need them any time soon, he reasoned. Might as well go to a noble cause.

Valjean set off for the motel.

-

“Cosette!” Valjean called up to the second story where his daughter’s and his room was, “Cosette, honey, we have to go!”

No response. Valjean awkwardly walked the bike to a park and ran up the stairwell, limping badly, “Cosette, come on, get the bags, we have to go!”

She appeared in the doorway, wide-eyed, trembling, “Are we in danger?”

Valjean hesitated, motioning for her to follow, “No, no, we just have to go right now or we’ll miss the train. Come on!”

“Papa!” she stopped at the balcony, staring, as her father mounted the motorbike, “Wh... Where did you get the vespa? Where’s the car??”

Valjean floundered a bit, “I had to crash it. I’ll explain on the way; grab your bags and hurry down! We have to leave now!”

She made no movement.

“Cosette, please!” she stared at him before hesitantly following. When she reached him in the parking lot and finally got a proper look at her father, she stopped yet again. She saw his broken nose. His blood-stained chin and neck. The blood soaked into his shirt.

“A-are you hurt? What happened to you??”

“No, no, I. I might’ve broken my nose,” Valjean shook his head, “Please, Cosette, just get on we have to go.”

Again, she was frozen in shock, trying to make sense of the madness. Valjean didn’t blame her–not exactly–but time was of the essence and she was not making their escape any easier. He was just about to shout again when she broke down entirely.

Cosette began to cry.

“No–!” he flailed to pull her close and comfort his daughter. She shook in his arms, shaking her head.

“I thought you’d been caught!” she sobbed hysterically, “I thought you’d been arrested and–”

“Darling, princess, no,” Valjean hushed her, hugging her tight, “I didn’t mean to worry you, I’m so sorry. H-how was breakfast? Did you get the pancakes?”

She sputtered frantically, shaking her head, “Th-they didn’t have blueberry pancakes, I had to get buttermilk- are you sure you’re okay??” her hands fluttered nervously around the collar of his shirt, stressed by the blood there. Valjean shook his head.

“I’m fine, just- since I left this morning,” a hysterical laugh caught in his throat, “It has been, without a doubt, the single weirdest day of my life. Now please, Cosette. Get on the bike.”

She obeyed, finally, and Valjean was able to rev the engine one more. His daughter’s arms came around his stomach, clinging tight. Once more, in a tiny voice, she asked, “Whose vespa is this?”

“It’s a motorcycle, honey.”

She hugged onto him, cheek against his back, voice small but calming down, “Whose motorcycle is this?”

“Thénardier’s.”

Cosette tensed.

“Where is Thénardier?”

“Thénardier’s dead, Cosette,” Valjean kicked up the stand supporting the bike, “Thénardier’s dead.”

The two rode off at a break-neck speed down back-roads and side-streets for the train station that would lead them, once and for all, out of persecution and into an easier life. Valjean couldn’t help but grin and thank God, even as he revisited the bizarre horrors of his day. Behind him, Cosette held on tightly, trusting everything would be alright.

And it was.

 

End.


End file.
